“Don’t, sir, I am not worth it,” she faltered, trying to get him back on to the bed.

“My saviour,” he cried, clasping his hands reverently before her. “ Vous êtes noble comme une marquise! I⁠—I am a wretch. Oh, I’ve been dishonest all my life.⁠ ⁠…”

“Calm yourself!” Sofya Matveyevna implored him.

“It was all lies that I told you this evening⁠—to glorify myself, to make it splendid, from pure wantonness⁠—all, all, every word, oh, I am a wretch, I am a wretch!”

The first attack was succeeded in this way by a second⁠—an attack of hysterical remorse. I have mentioned these attacks already when I described his letters to Varvara Petrovna. He suddenly recalled Lise and their meeting the previous morning. “It was so awful, and there must have been some disaster and I didn’t ask, didn’t find out! I thought only of myself. Oh, what’s the matter with her? Do you know what’s the matter with her?” he besought Sofya Matveyevna.